Page 24 of Hot Receiver

“Okay, everyone, as I’ve mentioned and reiterated at the start of this conference, today is about the future of the Crusaders organization and bridging past relationships to a bright future. So, if you’ll just—” he starts.

“Zak Kacey was an incredible talent. All of the top football programs in the country wanted him to sign with their schools, but he picked Ohio State because his dad played there, and he wanted to continue the legacy,” Matt interrupts.

Marc twists toward him, his forehead pinching.

I grip the edge of the table so hard the tips of my nails dig into the wood grain.

“He was a shoo-in for the Heisman Trophy during his first year and had been scouted by NFL teams from the start of his freshman season. His injury left him with no option to continue. To suggest otherwise is just cruel. You’re basically implying that he walked away from something he loved so deeply because he wasn’t strong enough to handle adversity.”

Matt waves a finger at the crowd. “If any of you saw video footage from last night, then you know he’s not the kind of person to let hate and intolerance rule his life. So, instead of making ignorant comments, maybe you should study those videos a little more closely. The NFL needs more people like Zak Kacey. His heart and passion are what’s missing from management. And after what Reed Hoffman and his son did to this organization, this guy is the perfect one to set us straight.”

A little gasp goes through the crowd.

Matt’s lips crook upward, and he gives me a little wink. “No pun intended.”

I can barely breathe past the lump wedged in my throat.

How the hell am I supposed to convince myself that I still hate himnow?

Chapter 11

Matt

Ican’t get out of the conference room fast enough after Marc wraps things up.

Tugging at the collar of my shirt, I push past Marc and Zak and head for the door. The press is still buzzing, and I see a few make a beeline for me. All the more reason to get the fuck out of here immediately, if not sooner. The air is so thick with tension, it chokes me, slowly and agonizingly.

I grab my phone out of my pocket and stare down at the screen while I walk. Those press people sure didn’t waste any time putting their two cents out there for the world to see. A sea of notifications swallows my screen saver. Everyone has something to say about me jumping to Zak’s defense, especially after I saved his ass last night outside of the event.

Frowning, I scroll through the text. Some claim he paid me to say that stuff during the press conference, some think he’s hanging my contract over my head as leverage to make him look competent, while others believe he’s using my fame to put him in good graces with the team and fans.

Whatever they think doesn’t matter because now the spotlight is on me, not him and his supposed secret desire to turn the Crusaders into an all-gay team. I mean, what the fuck kind of shit is that? Who even came up with that idea?

I spoke out for him because I couldn’t the first time.

And I meant every single word I said.

The sport lost an amazing talent eight years ago. Football recovered, but I’m afraid Zak never did.

Maybe he never will.

I stop once I get to the end of a quiet hallway just past a set of elevators. Somehow, I managed to dodge all the vultures. They’ll be leaving through the main elevator bank, not this one, which is usually reserved for management. With a pounding pulse, I take a few gulps of air. Blood rushes between my temples.

“You have a choice, Harrison. You can save Kacey or yourself. What’s it gonna be?”

Tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I scrub a hand over my skin. Beads of sweat form along the sides of my head.

“Don’t take this away from him. He didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

My heart thumps hard. I squeeze my eyes closed, pressing my hand against a wall to clear my mind of the toxic scene.

“Who the fuck are you kidding, Harrison? I know you too well. You’re gonna protect your own ass and let Kacey take the fall.”

The ringing sound of clashing cymbals rattles my eardrums. Short, sharp gasps slip from my lips, a crippling pain shoots down my left arm.

I hunch over with a hiss and sink to my knees. Leaning forward with my forehead to the white painted wall, a disturbing slew of images wallpapers my mind. Flashing whitestadium lights, a sea of red jerseys, panicked faces streaked with tears, blood-stained walls, shattered liquor bottles, and assault rifles pointed straight at me.

The collision of two worlds, and I’m caught in the middle of both.

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